


Those Daring Young Men and Their Flying Machines

by poisonivory



Category: DCU, DCU - Comicverse, Justice League International (Comic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonivory/pseuds/poisonivory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Carter’s going to die working for that lunatic Kord. That is, if he doesn’t kill Kord first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Daring Young Men and Their Flying Machines

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2009 Winter Boostlethon. Thanks to mizzmarvel for the beta!

Michael John Carter was the darling of the Royal Aeronautics Force, known throughout the Empire for having saved the two youngest princes from a kidnapping attempt during his first month with the service, and so when it came to light that he had omitted much of his personal history when he enlisted, including a father who had died in debtors’ prison and his own tendency to cheat at cards while playing for very high stakes against very important people, it was decided that to court martial him would bring too much of a scandal. Though the duke he had bilked argued loudly in favor of having Carter shot until dead, and then shot again – and it was suspected that Carter’s dalliance with his daughter added volume to his protests – cooler heads prevailed. The Royal Aeronautics Force could not be made a laughingstock, and so it was agreed to send Carter somewhere out of the way, where he would probably quickly be killed.

This was why Carter now found himself careening to Earth in a small metal rig shaped like an insect, yanking back on the controls in an effort to keep himself from being turned to pâté. He managed to lessen the angle of his descent so that the impact only _felt_ like it had dislodged every tooth in his head, jouncing helplessly around in his seat as the rig plowed up a great furrow in the airfield.

It was a long moment before he trusted himself to move without vomiting, and when he _did_ move he had to bite back a shout of pain. Everything hurt. He was still blinking back involuntary tears when a pair of inquisitive goggles were thrust in his face.

“Did you feel a bit of a pull to the left?” the mouth below the goggles asked.

Pain subsided in the face of such annoyance. “Yes, Kord, it appears that I _have_ miraculously survived that crash. Thank you so much for inquiring. No, please don’t feel guilty for placing me in that rubbishy deathtrap in the first place. I’m aware that your mental disquiet prevents you from understanding such concepts as ‘safety’ or ‘precautions.’”

Kord shoved the goggles up on his head and rolled his eyes. “You’re still able to complain, so you are obviously unhurt.” He held out a hand. “Come out of there so I can see what caused it to lose control like that.”

Carter ignored the proffered hand, and, making his face a mask to avoid showing how much pain he was in, pushed himself up out of the seat of the rig and stepped out. His knees gave out, though, and he would have stumbled if Kord had not caught him. Kord was warm and stronger than Carter expected, and Carter hastily straightened up despite the protests from his spine, and moved away. He did not want anything from Kord – not support, not pity, and most of all not his company, but it was this last that he could not avoid.

Theodore Kord had defied all the expectations of his wealthy family by going into the sciences, where he had turned his brilliant mind to the new study of flight. Aeronautical combat had been in practice for the past twenty years, but thanks to Kord’s inventions, the British Empire’s flying machines were lighter, faster, more maneuverable, and more lethal than any other nation’s. Kord was exceedingly valuable to the RAF, and since he had a habit of testing his inventions himself, they had sought to keep him from blowing himself up by providing him with Carter for use as a test pilot.

Carter had realized within minutes that this pampered, polished rich scion was the most intelligent man he had ever met. He was also the most _aggravating_.

They had fought over how to fly. They had fought over _when_ to fly. They had fought over the size of the rigs, since Kord had constructed them to fit himself, and Carter’s legs were much longer, and they had fought over the colors for the finished rigs, since Kord preferred blue and Carter gold, knowing all the while that British flying machines were all painted red anyway. They had fought over slights real and imagined and most days it was all Carter could not to grab Kord and…and…

Well, he wasn’t quite sure what he would do then, but it would certainly make his feelings known.

Kord was now looking at him sideways, his dark blue eyes concerned – undoubtedly for the sake of his test pilot, since Carter had no illusions that Kord harbored any more affection for him _personally_ than he did for Kord. “You’d best sit down for a moment while I examine the rig,” Kord said. “I believe there’s a flask of brandy over by the supplies. That ought to steady you.”

“I do not require _steadying_ ,” Carter said loftily, but when he had lowered himself into a sitting position at the edge of the field and Kord had returned to work on the rig, he rummaged through the supplies until he found the flask and took a hasty swallow.

He watched as Kord squatted by the rig to poke at its gears and pistons. He had to admit that Kord’s flying machines were a joy to pilot, when they worked. Under different circumstances – say, had he not been in disgrace, and had he and Kord not loathed one another – he probably would have enjoyed this assignment. He _did_ enjoy it when he was up in the air, brushing the bellies of the clouds, the wind in his face. There was no better feeling than the lift of one’s heart when one flew.

He’d said as much to Kord once, while Kord was adjusting the wing of the rig Carter was sitting in. Kord looked at him, and for a moment Carter wanted to bite back the words, the sort of thing that only got him perplexed looks back when he had been a regular member of the RAF.

But Kord had merely smiled, and even behind his goggles his eyes were achingly blue. “Well, naturally. Why else do you think I build these?” he’d asked, and Carter had decided to quickly end the conversation, lest he forget why he hated Kord.

He now took another discreet swallow of brandy and wondered how much longer he would be forced to put up with this assignment. Mostly likely until Kord got him killed. Which shouldn’t be too much longer, all things considered…

The rig exploded.

Carter was running before he had quite realized what was happening, his pain forgotten. Kord, Kord had been right there, he would have been caught directly in the explosion, and this was precisely what Carter was there to prevent…

He reached the rig and was relieved to see that it was only the engine nearer to him that had exploded. Kord might be all right, then, on the other side of it. And he _was_ all right, Carter realized as he rounded the side of the rig – he was getting to his feet, looking slightly dazed and singed, his arm bleeding, but as of yet unexploded.

“Carter,” Kord said. “What the devil are you doing running like that? I told you to sit.”

“You’re all right,” Carter said stupidly.

“Of course I’m all right,” Kord said. “I’ve lived through worse explosions than that before breakfast. Why, what – wait. Did you come running over here because you thought I’d been hurt? Why, Carter, I’m touched.” His smile was infuriating, and Carter felt his hackles rise. Instantly concern vanished.

“I only _hoped_ ,” Carter shot. “If you’d blown yourself up I’d be free from having to put up with you and your half-cocked inventions.”

Kord’s smile didn’t falter. “I think you’re lying,” he sang, pulling out a handkerchief and pressing it to the cut on his arm. “What would you do without me and my inventions? You’d be heartbroken.”

“Ha!” Carter snorted. “I would dance a jig. I _hate_ you.”

Kord looked up at him. The smile was gone, but there was still a trace of amusement in his eyes. “That’s a shame,” he said, “because I like you rather a lot.”

Perhaps the crash had shaken Carter more than he realized, because his heart gave the sudden giddy lurch he got from flying. “Oh.”

Then he scowled. “Your handkerchief is dirty. You’re going to give yourself blood poisoning.” He tugged his own out of his sleeve and handed it to Kord. “Take this and go sit down and have some brandy.”

“Yes, Mother.” Kord took the handkerchief, his fingers hot as they brushed Carter’s. He crossed the field with Carter and sat. Taking a swallow of brandy, he poured a bit into his cut, wincing at the sting, before binding his arm with the unaffected expertise of one who has frequently doctored his own wounds.

“I really am fine, Carter,” he said as he handed him the flask, and Carter realized he had not left off staring at Kord for the entire bandaging process.

“I really do not care, Kord,” Carter replied. He took the flask, though, in need of another sip of “steadying.” For as he looked at this brilliant, aggravating man, who loved flying and disregarded authority and was even now outlining his plans for fixing the rig with his uninjured arm, he began to suspect that he liked Kord rather a lot, too.

He suddenly hoped that this assignment would be very, very long.


End file.
